tavern, its front windows painted an opaque blue, took up the entire bottom of the building except for the width of a steep, dilapidated stairway that led up from a single door in one corner of the front of the building. Gilt letters stenciled on the glass proclaimed somebody's small joke on the world-THE RITZ HOTEL. Ritz indeed! It looked like an over-the-hill flophouse. A condemned over-the-hill flophouse.
To my surprise, the battered door wasn't locked. I pushed it open and looked up a steep flight of scarred linoleum-covered stairs. Both the walls of the stairway and the ceiling as well had been covered with what looked like old egg crates. I recognized the wall covering as a poor man's version of make-do soundproofing. A single naked light bulb hung from a twisted brown cord high above the stairs.
Attached to the wall on the downstairs landing was a pay telephone. The number was printed on the face of the phone, but when I reached for my notebook to check that number against the one taken from Tadeo Kurobashi's message pad, I realized I had left my notebook on the seat of the car. I stood there wavering for a moment, wondering if I should go back out and get it right then, or wait.
I decided to wait. My life is like that, made up of small and seemingly inconsequential decisions that come back later and nip me in the butt.
'Hello? I called up the stairs.
Nobody answered, but just then a gigantic burst of music rumbled down the stairs like an avalanche, with bass notes so loud that they vibrated the wooden hand rail I was holding.
'Hello, I called again, but there was no answer. No one could possibly have heard me above that earsplitting racket.
The music stopped momentarily and then started again at the exact same note. It sounded as though an entire symphonic orchestra must be rehearsing in the dim upstairs reaches of the Ritz Hotel.
I climbed to the top of the stairs, covering my ears with the palms of my hands in an effort to filter out some of the music. The noise level reminded me of a rock concert. The music, more classical than rock, was nothing I recognized.
The upstairs landing was soundproofed just as the stairs had been, and so was the long narrow corridor that led from the top of the stairs to the far end of the building. I had expected that the corridor would be lined with a long row of doors leading to separate rooms. Instead, only two doors were showing in the entire hallway, one at the far end of the building and the other directly in front of me. I waited until the next lull in the music and pounded on the door as soon as it was quiet.
The man who opened the door was in his mid to late thirties, six-foot-five at least, with long flowing chestnut hair. I know women who would kill to have hair like his, women who have paid a hundred dollars a crack for permanents and dye jobs in futile attempts to duplicate that look.
In the old days this guy would have worn rope sandals and been called a Jesus freak. Instead, he wore earphones and carried an open laptop computer. I looked beyond him, expecting to see a roomful of people. Instead, I saw a huge room filled with all kinds of computer equipment. Clay Woodruff was an electronics junky. A hacker.
'Are you Clay Woodruff? I asked.
He nodded. 'Whaddaya want? he demanded, holding one of his earphones away from his head. 'Can't you see I'm busy?
'My name is J. P. Beaumont. I'm with the Seattle Police. May I come in?
'Come back later. I'm working on a deadline.
He punched a few keys on the computer and closed his eyes to listen. Again a blast of music exploded around me. I waited. He was evidently playing only a short passage on some kind of complicated synthesizer, and I figured he'd stop the music again before long. When he did, I was still standing in the doorway.
'Not enough bass, he muttered loudly when he once more shut off the music. 'Ever since those kids messed with my stuff, I haven't been able to get enough bass.
'It sounds like there's more than enough bass to me, I yelled, in order to be heard through his earphones.
Clay Woodruff looked at me in surprise, as though I had materialized out of thin air. 'I'm here concerning Tadeo Kurobashi, I added, still shouting.
Woodruff's thick, bushy eyebrows came together in a frown. 'What about him? he asked.
'He's dead.
In one swift motion, Woodruff peeled off his earphones and put them on a table beside the door. 'You're kidding. When? How?
'Last Sunday night, after he came here to visit you.
I pulled out my ID and handed it to him. Woodruff looked at it carefully, then gave it back to me, closed the lid to his computer, and switched it off.
'Let's go downstairs, he said. 'We'll talk there.
He closed and locked the hallway door behind him, put the key in his pocket, and then carried the laptop with him, stuffed under one arm like an oversized book. We had to go out on the sidewalk before we could go into the tavern. I stopped at the car long enough to retrieve my notebook, then he led the way into Davey's locker. 'Beer? he asked.
It was long after hours. I was on my own time and in my own vehicle. 'Sure, I said. 'Why not?
Clay sat at a table just inside the door, placing the computer on the floor beside him. He signaled the bartender, holding up one finger on one hand and two fingers on the other. With a nod the bartender translated the prearranged signal into action, bringing over one large pitcher of beer along with two empty glasses and setting them on the table in front of us.
'How's it going? Clay asked.
The bartender shrugged. 'Usual Friday night crowd. No problem.
Clay poured two beers, expertly filling the glasses without running the head over the top. 'Tell me what happened, he said.
And so I told him some of it-Kurobashi's death, the vicious attacks on Kurobashi's wife and child-interspersing the telling with enough questions so that in the process of giving out information, I was also receiving it.
Yes, he and Tadeo had worked together at RFLink. Yes, he had been present during the patent discussion between Blakeslee and Tadeo, and when Blakeslee had refused the product, both he and Tadeo had quit outright. No, he had never received a summons to testify in Tadeo's behalf during the patent infringement trial, and yes, he would have been glad to do so had he been notified.
Woodruff told me that he had received a commission to compose an original work for the Houston Symphony, and he had been working on that night and day for months, not accepting phone calls or seeing any visitors. Maybe the subpoena had come then, he said.
Throughout the discussion, Woodruff seemed gravely concerned, particularly when I told him about what had happened to Machiko and Kimi. 'Are they going to be all right?
'Machiko's already out of the hospital. She's staying with a friend of Kimi's near Pullman. Kimi's in Sacred Heart in Spokane. From what I heard today, she's doing much better, but she's a long way from being released.
'I see, he said.
'According to Mrs. Oliver, you called Mr. Kurobashi on Friday.
Woodruff nodded. 'That's right.
'Why?
'I had told Tad that when I finished up with my commission, the two of us would do something together.
'What do you mean? Go fishing? Take a trip?
'No, no. We were a good team, the two of us. I knew that Tadeo was working on something, had been for years, and I wanted to market it for him. It takes three things to bring off a new product-engineering, money, and marketing.
'What new product?
Woodruff's eyes became veiled. Until then, his answers had been forthright and easily given. Now he clammed up. He covered his mouth with his hand, letting one finger rest against the side of his nose. I worked my way through college selling Fuller Brush door-to-door. I can tell when somebody stops buying. Clay Woodruff had
